rust from the blade
by skitterings
Summary: A spot of trouble for Masaki sees the return of a familiar face.


The adoption, like the wedding, had been kept relatively quiet; private, but not confidential. All right, so maybe they'd thrown an adoption party and invited the old Aliea gang and assorted other friends, and maybe they'd brought him to work to show him off and gone shopping for his new room in a loud and enthusiastic bustle of excitement. But they hadn't posted it on Facebook, or sent out any kind of announcement, or made any effort for the general public to know, and in any case they were businessmen, not movie stars; living their lives didn't attract paparazzi. Things like this didn't become widely known unless you really wanted them to be.

Which was why both Hiroto and Midorikawa were taken by surprise when, not a week after they'd properly settled in, Masaki came home from school, threw down his bookbag, and said, "All right, can you guys get rid of this news van that's been stalking me?"

"What?" Hiroto and Midorikawa were on their feet in an instant, the air around them gone tight with fear.

"Right there," said Masaki, jerking his head back, and his parents came to the door; they peered down the street to where a van with _Tomonaga Media_ barely legible on the side sat quietly idling just around the corner.

"Tomonaga Media," said Hiroto, frowning. "Weren't they the ones who—"

"—threatened to publish our wedding pictures unless we payed five million yen," finished Midorikawa. "The worst." Turning sharply to Masaki, he said, "You say they've been stalking you?"

"Yeah," said Masaki, glowering. "Like, following me around after school, and stuff."

"Since when?" asked Midorikawa, and Masaki shrugged and looked evasive and shuffled his feet for a while before saying, "The past… three days, maybe."

A gasp in unison. "Three _days_?" said Hiroto frantically, while Midorikawa put his hands to his mouth and said, "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I didn't want to be a tattletale."

"A tattle—"

"I'm not a baby," said Masaki defensively. "I can handle myself! I thought they'd just give up if I waited long enough. But they haven't."

"Masaki," said Hiroto, firmly gentle, and took Masaki's face in his hands. "There is _nothing wrong_ with asking adults for help, all right? There's nothing shameful about it. We're your _parents_. If you try to handle problems on your own that an adult should handle, you could get yourself in serious trouble one day, all right?"

"All right," said Masaki, and Hiroto sighed and let go only to pull him into a quick, tight hug.

"They're coming this way," said Midorikawa, low and tense, and Hiroto's head snapped around. The van was slowly pulling up the street.

"Shit," hissed Hiroto.

Midorikawa turned to Masaki, his eyes wide and intense with worry. "Tell us everything."

"They wanted an interview," said Masaki. "Day before yesterday, I guess. Barged into class and everything. I told them no, they tried again after school, I told them no again, and since then they've been following me around whenever I leave school."

Midorikawa sucked in a breath.

"I tried to take a bunch of shortcuts and detours," complained Masaki. "But they keep catching up to me again. And I'd go into shops for ages, sometimes even an hour, and they'd be waiting outside when I got out. This is the first time they've followed me home, though."

The two of them were livid by now. Midorikawa wheeled around; the van was in front of their house now, people disembarking, someone holding a camera.

"All right," said Hiroto, "that's it. That's _it_." He started to head out the door, but Midorikawa put a hand on his wrist.

"No," he said, "let me go."

There was a sharp and deadly glint in his eye. Hiroto let him go.

Midorikawa ran a hand through his bangs, rolled his shoulders, then marched down the front path, through the front gate, up to the gaggle of reporters. Hiroto and Masaki trailed behind, just close enough to eavesdrop but no closer; Hiroto kept Masaki protectively close, half shielding him behind himself.

"I have a question for you," said Midorikawa coldly. "Why have you been stalking my son?"

Hiroto _knew_ that voice. He hadn't heard that voice in years.

"We weren't stalking him," said one of the reporters, blandly self-assured, "we were just—"

"—brazenly invading the privacy of a thirteen-year-old." Midorikawa overrode him, implacable. "You tried to interrupt him in class, and wouldn't take no for an answer. You tracked his every move outside of school for three days. You followed him _home_. Only a bottom-feeding lowlife would consider that anything other than stalking. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?"

His voice was smooth, haughty and deliberately paced, his eyes sharp and hard as flint; he was somehow managing to look down at the reporters despite being on average their height. Masaki's eyes were wide.

"We just wanted an interview."

"Which he declined. If you had any ounce of moral fiber, that should have been the end of it."

"All he had to do was say yes," said the one wearing a tie, stepping forward. "We were only going to ask him a few questions—"

He was immediately fixed with a look of soul-crushing disdain. "About?"

"About the adoption," said the tie man, to his credit only faltering a little. "About what it's like having guardians who are so… so influential, and how he feels being a part of the homosexual lifestyle—"

" _Ah_ ," said Reize, and a mirthless smile curved his mouth. "There it is. Don't cover your head while exposing your bottom, as they say. You wanted to write about the weird perverted gays corrupting a poor innocent little child, right? Stir up the scandal, publish it in some gossip rag, and then somehow be able to look yourselves in the mirror the next day?"

"We're just… concerned, is all."

"A bigot _and_ a liar, then! I'm sure you were so concerned for him when you stalked him for three days, weren't you? Do your puny, pathetic minds even understand what that _does_ to a child? Or his parents?"

"We just—"

"'Just' nothing," said Reize, cold and clipped, and held up a finger. "Now. Because I am in a good mood, I will let you off with a restraining order, to be filed as soon as you band of maggots have fucked off to whatever hole you came from. But if I catch you so much as _breathing_ within ten miles of my son or my family, I will not only sue, I might just run your company into the ground for good."

"You're threatening us?" said one of the reporters, in disbelief. He appeared to be hiding behind the one in front of him, just a little.

"Oh, am I?" said Reize silkily. "You threatened my son first. No court of law will side with you over me, mark my words. Now, did any of you have anything else to say?"

A long silence. The group looked at each other uncertainly, shook their heads a little.

"Good," said Reize, and flicked his finger in dismissal. "Off. If I catch you again you'll wish you'd never been born."

His face showed every sign of making good on his word. The would-be interviewers piled back into the van, making a visible effort not to show their haste.

Midorikawa watched them go, stone-faced and flinty-eyed until the van had turned the corner. Only then did he let out a great breath, roll his shoulders, and squish his cheeks in his hands as though resetting his face. "Yep," he said, bright and self-satisfied. "Still got it."

His husband and son rushed over. Masaki was saying, "Holy shit. Holy shit." "Babe," said Hiroto, starry-eyed. "That was _amazing_."

"You never call me that," said Midorikawa, giggling a little. A release of nervous tension. "That impressive?"

"It's been years," said Hiroto breathlessly. "I never thought—you can still—?"

"Looks like it," said Midorikawa, and pulled his family into a bone-crushing hug.

"Ow," said Masaki, letting himself be subsumed. Midorikawa pressed a hard, fierce kiss to his forehead, then let them go, beaming. "I'm glad you're all safe," he said.

"I am, I am," said Masaki, "you didn't need to do all that," but his eyes still betrayed some awe, some gratitude. "Where did you learn that? Is this more of that 'we'll tell you someday' stuff you keep being cryptic about?"

"It might be," said Hiroto, laughing, and Masaki griped, "Oh, come on!"

"Someday," said Midorikawa, and took his hand, heading back to the house. "Someday."

Masaki's prankster senses zeroed in. "It was embarrassing, wasn't it?"

"No," said Midorikawa emphatically.

Hiroto cleared his throat awkwardly. "A—A little."

"It was a turbulent period in our lives that left lasting marks," huffed Midorikawa, then relented. "It _kind of_ is."

"Tell me!"

"No!"

"You were in a theater troupe, weren't you? A theater troupe gone wrong?"

" _No!_ "

They were inside the house by now. No one was around, they were safe—but just in case, Hiroto locked the door.

* * *

 **scrolled through a list of japanese proverbs for the title and ended up picking this one bc it means "what goes around comes around" (fitting) but also sounds like cleaning rust off an old blade in order to use it again (also fitting). ended up sounding a bit too dramatic though**

 **reviews highly appreciated!**


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